Exile
by Nastrandir
Summary: On the surface she's a Warden, but when she returns to Orzammar, she finds that the past proves a tangled path that she must walk.
1. Chapter 1

_A brief diversion back into the Dragon Age world. An edited version of the first part to correct a few things. Bioware owns nearly everything. Thoughts are reviews are always welcome.  
_

_**Exile**_

_Part One  
_

She'd forgotten the smell, the cloying thickness of it, the way the dust seemed to swim in the air. She'd forgotten the sounds, the clamour of footsteps and weapons and voices all trapped inside the stone. She'd forgotten the heat and how it clung, relentless, to the pillars and the high curving walls.

Even here, she thought, even here in the damn Diamond Quarter, even here where the guards hadn't looked at her brand, especially here.

She crossed the room again, her gaze brisk and taking in the deep carvings, the rich fall of the tapestries, the soft glow of the lanterns. Beside the table, she paused long enough to hook up the decanter and a cup.

Warden, they'd called her at the gates. Warden, since the title and the icy pendant at her throat meant the bastards couldn't call her exile to her face. Warden and welcomed and grudgingly they'd let her in, and already she suspected she'd walked smack into even more of a fucking mess than the one she'd left.

She gulped at the wine and swore when she swallowed too fast. Too aware of the tension that still had its claws it her, she stalked across to the bath, the stone rim of it smooth and gleaming. Rica'd insisted, rooms and hospitality and the palace and minutes after the servants had closed the doors she'd stood, fingers clenched, wondering what she was expected to do next.

She shucked her leathers off, still damp with the snow and the sharp scent of the mountains. How many months, she thought. How many since she'd staggered out into the biting brittle night and trailed after Duncan? How many since she'd been dragged out from the stone walls here and been offered a choice that was no damn choice at all?

Months enough for Rica to carry the child, she supposed. Months enough for the darkspawn to come surging up out of the stone. Months enough to scrub the stink of Dust Town off her skin and wonder if she'd ever see it again.

The warmth of the water banished the roil of her thoughts, and afterwards, she dripped her way across the deep, soft rugs. She was half-dressed and close to halfway through the decanter when the door opened, letting in Rica amid whispering green silk and the dewdrop glint of jewels.

"I'm not disturbing you?"

She grinned. "Not by much, I promise."

"I wondered if we could talk," Rica said.

She nodded. "Sure. Of course."

"This treaty you're here for, Corryth. I know you're a Warden now," Rica said, and frowned, hesitating.

"They gave me a shiny pendant and everything to prove it."

Rica blinked. "Right. I meant – I know there are greater concerns for you and your friends right now."

"You're dancing," she said sharply.

"I'm sorry. It's been so different, and it happened so fast. One day we were both here, and then," Rica said.

"Then you went and rolled around the right way with Prince Bhelen and look at us now." Instants after the words rolled off her tongue, she regretted them. "Shit. I'm sorry."

Rica shook her head. "No, it's fine."

She grabbed for the decanter again. "You're right. It was fast. One heartbeat I was staring up at some guard's sword, the next I was being marched outside, right up to the surface."

"I know," Rica said, softer. "They wouldn't let me see you. Wouldn't even let me write you a letter."

"Wouldn't've mattered. Had to move even faster once we hit daylight."

"Where did you go?"

"First? Ostagar."

"Where?"

Corryth grinned. "It's a good story. Not sure it's one I'd believe if anyone else told it to me."

"Try me," Rica said, and something sparked in her eyes, something half-buried and fierce and well-remembered.

"Alright. It starts with me shaking in my damn boots and wondering if I'd get myself half a league into the mountains before keeling over."

The words came quicker after that, quicker and tumbling into each other, the high broken towers of Ostagar and the chaotic clamour of the battle that had followed. How she'd woken with a scream still half on her lips afterwards, her gaze finding Flemeth's daughter and later, her fingers finding the new scars on her shoulders. How the months had unravelled after that, the road always twisting away ahead, and the early mornings bringing her jolting out of uncertain sleep.

"What does it mean?"

"Means I don't sleep well some nights," Corryth said guardedly. "Look, I don't know. Something about being a Warden."

"And you think you'll manage it? This thing you have to do?"

"If I can get those bastards in the Assembly to stop blocking each other and start talking, sure." She stared down at the wine cup, the base of it encrusted and bright with gems. "I don't know. I just know I'm stuck with it, and I need to do it. Or try to do it."

"Well then," Rica said. "We should get you another audience with Bhelen. Move on from there."

She nodded. "That's a start. Now tell me. Are you alright?"

Rica laughed. "Have you seen where you are?"

"Not what I asked."

"I'm alright," her sister said, quieter. "It was strange, to begin with." Rica shook herself, her gaze brightening again. "You need anything while you're here, you let me know, you understand?"

"I understand," Corryth answered lightly. She drained the cup. "So. You seen Leske?"

"No," Rica said. "I'm sorry. I haven't."

* * *

She couldn't stop staring at the low stone roof, or else at the hanging lamps and the trembling marigold light they threw across the long low tables and the rich rugs that swathed the stone floor. She'd spent the afternoon with Rica and the child – Endrin, she recalled, same as the child's grandfather, tiny and strong already, hands wrapping around one of her fingers and locking hard – before she'd been called into Prince Bhelen's rooms.

He'd called it a negotiation and she'd thought it a decision already made for her but she'd agreed regardless. Tracking down a pair of nobles in Harrowmont's pay and convincing them otherwise and inwardly she'd wondered how different this was, really, to anything Beraht had ever ordered of her.

And now, sitting with her elbows on the table and a full plate in front of her, her attention was damn well wandering. The others had already eaten, most of them, murmuring about how good it was to be inside and out from the brisk, biting cold of the mountains. She'd been aware of them talking, of how they'd slipped out, and she was almost sure she'd nodded and said she'd see them later. She'd been left with Alistair on one side and the huge brown-furred mabari curled up near the hearth, huffing quietly into his paws.

"Are you alright?" Alistair asked.

She stirred out of the mire of her thoughts. "Hmm?"

"You're being very quiet," he said wryly. He reached for another slice of meat. "Just not like you."

"Yes." She stared down at the plate for another long moment. "Sorry."

"No, don't be. I only meant – well, I can't know how you feel, but I know I'd feel strange, coming back like this."

"It is. I mean, I knew we'd have to come here. I didn't think about it. Didn't want to think about it."

"Why not?"

She laughed, the sound of it hollow. "Me, telling them all what to do and how to do it, just because I'm asking? Right."

Alistair smiled. "You know, if they'd told us to go away at the gates, we'd have thought of something."

"Like what? Getting Sten to stare at them?"

"That's worked in the past."

She grinned, the reaction honest and surprising herself. "True enough, that."

"Your sister's nice."

"She'd better be, given that Mother and me haven't an ounce of charm between us." Her grin faded. "She is. Still can't believe she was sitting there. Still can't believe she's up here in this damn palace with a child."

"When you left," he said, and hesitated.

"She was hoping she was with child. We didn't know, though. Weren't sure yet." She pushed the plate away.

"Corryth," he said.

"You sound like Wynne. Just not very hungry right now."

Alistair nodded slowly. "You saw the prince?"

"Yes, I suffered that pleasure this afternoon."

"What do you think?"

"He's a conniving bastard."

"Is he any better or worse than the other man? Harrowmont?"

Corryth grimaced. "How should I know? They're all the same far's I see. Rich bastards who can afford to take the time over the voting while the Assembly locks itself up and the city goes stale."

"And what do you really think?"

"Sharp," she acknowledged. She turned, slinging one leg over the bench so that she was facing him. "Alright. I can't see between them, that's the truth. But my sister's trapped with Bhelen."

"Trapped?"

"Well. She wouldn't say trapped. Probably wouldn't say it. It's not worth the mess it'd leave her in if her exiled Warden sister stirred up the city by siding with Harrowmont."

"Then Bhelen it is," Alistair said.

"That easily?"

"She's your sister. It's important," he said, softer. "And, well. It's your city. I don't know this place at all. I don't understand what we've walked into."

"You know," she said drily. "Not sure I do anymore either."

"Then that makes us quite the pair right now. Look," he said. "As long as we're careful, we'll figure it out."

She reached for the wine cup, lifted it. The wine burned when she swallowed too quickly. "Stupid. I just want it over. Get the treaty agreed and get out of here."

"That's not stupid."

"No?" She scrubbed a hand across the back of her neck. "Sorry. I'm snapping at you because I don't know what we've found ourselves in."

"Well," Alistair said mildly. "It wasn't your best shot at me by far. I can be forgiving."

She stared at him for a long, suspicious moment before she saw the smile at the corners of his mouth. "Thanks. I think."

Later, she slept badly, too aware of the enveloping silence. Twice she rolled over and glared at the dying embers of the fire beneath the stone mantel. She woke to stiff shoulders and the uncomfortable awareness of too much space around her, the absurd hollow emptiness of the guest rooms she'd been put in.

She meandered across to the basin and splashed tepid water at her face until she blinked. She dressed quickly, yanking fabric and leather on and fumbling with laces and buckles. Afterwards, she raked her hands through the short, thick mop of her hair. Her boots followed, and finally her sword and the two daggers she was never without, one hanging at her waist and one strapped to the inside of her calf.

The day took her through the city, relearning its avenues and pathways and the way the streets twisted past the golden glow of the lava. She found herself retracing old trails past guard posts and towards the proving grounds, and back again, through the lines of the merchants' stalls. Pausing to admire gems and trinkets and the severe, beautiful lines of new swords, she even found herself dallying on occasion.

She heard the whispers that followed, and half listened to them, to the way they called her Warden, and exile, and brand, and bit back a grin when more than one of them mangled her name. She discovered Lord Helmi at Tapsters, eager enough to talk as well as to switch loyalties, though she wasn't entirely sure she could blame him, given the apparent evidence Bhelen'd handed her.

The afternoon – she thought it was the afternoon, and since when had she started patterning her days the way they did up on the surface, with its shifting sunlight? – found her back in the palace, pacing.

"So," Zevran said, his voice easy and lilting. "Let me see if I understand. Lady Dace's father is needed, and he is away. And by away, this means the Deep Roads."

"Yes, the Deep Roads. Nasty, dark and full of darkspawn," she replied absently. "Off to one of the old thaigs. We start now, we'll catch him quick."

"And we want to do this? I only mean, should we not wait for him to return?"

Corryth grinned. "No, I don't like the idea either. But we need the bastard, so we go."

"We?" the assassin echoed, his grin as wolfish as hers.

"We need to move fast and quiet. You, me, Alistair, the dog."

Zevran sighed theatrically. "And no choice once again. Remind me why I am here?"

"Because I stabbed you in the leg, clubbed you over the head and after you woke up, asked you if you wanted more, and you said no."

He laughed. "Yes, I suppose it did go somewhat like that."

* * *

Down here, she remembered.

Down here, she knew how to move, how to read the shadows and the way they rippled. How to duck past the lancing shafts of light so she'd not be blinded. How to track the darkspawn where they left scuffed prints along the ground and between the sliding shale. How to trail them into the close, deafening press of the blackness and stop, waiting for the telltale hiss of an unsheathed blade or the gulping noise of them breathing.

When they stopped, eventually, all of them worn by the punishing hours of marching, she ordered them away from the main trail, far away, into the small curve of an empty stone corridor. The air smelled mostly clean, at least, the floor dry and cool.

"Going to have to manage watches both ways," she said.

"Wonderful," Zevran muttered. He glanced at the overarching press of the stone roof above. "Are you certain?"

"It's this, or somewhere more open where they're likely to see us from too far off, or else somewhere even more closed that we'll get backed into."

"As always you make the best of a bad set of options sound positively tempting, my dear."

"Course I do."

She'd scavenged an armful of wood on their way in, broken-off lance shafts and bits of old shields and whatever else the darkspawn had dropped that she could use. She crammed the lot of it together and coaxed a tentative fire into life. The flames sent the shadows scattering.

Corryth sat, legs crossed and eyes on the fire, idly wondering if they were safe enough that she could risk kicking her boots off.

"You know the Deep Roads well?" Alistair asked.

She swiveled her head so she could look up at him. "Don't know if I'd go so far as saying I know them. There's whole cities' worth under there, lost to the sodding darkspawn."

"But?" Zevran asked.

"But Leske and me, we might've wandered out a time or two."

"Looking for what?"

"Loot. Weapons, armour, jewels. Anything you strip off a dead bastard you can sell to a living one later. Didn't feel like this before, though."

"How do you mean?"

"Mean last time, we could hear the darkspawn, right enough. Couldn't feel them under my skin like this." The words spilled out in a juddering, grated rush, close to a whisper.

"Yes," Alistair said softly. "It does feel like that, doesn't it?"

"Never made it too deep in, though. No sense getting stuck more than a day or so out of Orzammar unless you really can't help it."

"How far in is this Lord Dace?"

"If we're lucky, and he's where he should be, we should run into him tomorrow."

"If we're lucky?" Zevran said, and grinned. "When aren't we?"

"You would say that," Corryth retorted. "You missed the bit where we got shot by a whole lot of arrows."

"Yes, but you also got rescued and gathered into the folds of destiny."

"The way you talk about it makes it seem far more exciting."

"It's a talent."

Corryth glared at him before reaching for her pack. The rations inside were bland and dry, the last of the salted meat. She ate slowly, aware of the other two as they talked, as Alistair chattered to the dog about something.

"Sorry," she said, much later, vaguely aware they were looking at her. "Someone said something?"

"Sharp," Alistair said teasingly. "You're tired?"

"Sleep? Down here? Not a chance. What did you say?"

"About your friend."

"Leske?"

"Yes. Are you going to look for him?"

She clicked her mouth closed. "Wouldn't know where to start."

"What do you mean?"

"Yes, well. You know I said I left Orzammar on – hah, on not the best of terms?"

Alistair nodded. "I remember."

"I got hauled off by the guards to the gate with Duncan, and Leske got hauled off the other way. I'd be impressed if he's still breathing."

Very carefully, Alistair asked, "Why?"

"And what you really mean is, why didn't you mention that before?" Corryth sighed. "You heard about the Provings we have?"

"A little."

"Well. Let's just say me and Leske thought it'd be a damn good idea to strap me in somebody else's armour and send me out into the Proving. And yes, we were actually shocked when we got caught."

Alistair coughed. "Tell me you're joking."

"Barely." She scrubbed a hand across her face. "You know, this kind of story really needs a tavern and a lot of ale to have it make sense."

"It's alright." Alistair's face softened. "I can always ask again sometime we're in a tavern with a lot of ale."

She smiled, the movement of it reflexive and false and too tight. "Thanks."

* * *

She took last watch, and sat beside the embers of the fire, her gaze fixed on the blank darkness beyond. They'd not been bothered by the darkspawn, and she idly wondered at their luck. Zevran'd mentioned footsteps, dragging somewhere, but he'd said the passageways either side were clear, and besides, she figured the distance would be distorting the sound.

Eventually she stood, wincing as something pulled in her lower back. A quick glance behind showed her the other two still asleep, enviably deeply, and the dog on Alistair's other side, his huge dark eyes open and watchful. She nodded to the dog, briefly considered that she was surely going mad, and paced to where the curve in the rock met the wider spread of the corridor.

Empty, she found, and heavy with the shadows. A broad lance of light speared down further ahead, dense with the dust. She sat again, sliding down onto her heels, the stone pressing hard against her back.

She missed the air moving, she realised, and stifled an absurd smile. She missed the damn air and she missed the surface and she still wasn't sure what kind of maze she'd walked into down here.

_The evening was cool, the air moving against her face. Whenever she opened her mouth, she could taste the forest, the dense rustling pine trees, the tiny needles that were still clinging to her boots. _

_She squinted at the parchment that was unrolled across her knees. She lasted through the terse moments before the letters resolved into something she could mostly wrestle with. She traced the ink with uncertain fingers, her mouth moving silently and catching on the words. _

_ "What's this one?" _

_ Alistair shifted. "Sorry?" _

_ "This word." _

_ He tilted his head. "Oh. Alliance." _

_ "Right." She grinned ruefully. "Sorry." _

_ "For what?" _

_ "Takes me a while sometimes." _

_ His mouth crooked into a soft smile. "That's nothing to apologise for." _

_ "Hah. Maybe." _

_ "I can think of other things you can apologise for, if you want." _

_ She laughed. "Like what?" _

_ "Finishing my dinner for me." _

_ "That was six days ago." She flattened her hands against the parchment. She remembered the day in the ruined tower, when she'd been running on instinct and jangling nerves and they'd finally stumbled upon the cache Duncan'd sent them for and found it empty. _

_ She looked up and found Alistair regarding her, that slight narrowing around his eyes that meant he wanted to ask something and wasn't sure how. _

_ "It was my sister who taught me," she explained, and he nodded. "You remember I told you about Beraht?" _

_ "Yes." _

_ "Beraht paid for it. Or hit people until they helped, whichever. Meant that Rica knew her letters and how to write them well. Bits of it, she told me." _

Footfalls broke her thoughts apart, and she spun upright, her sword halfway out of its scabbard.

"Only me," Alistair said, holding both hands up.

She sheathed the sword and mustered up a brief glare. "Couldn't sleep either?"

"Something about those dreams where all you hear are the whispers and suddenly, no, I kept finding myself awake."

"Strange, that."

He laughed, or sighed, the sound of it tired. "Isn't it."

She slid back down until she was sitting. For long, hesitant moments, she plucked at the pendant, tangled amid the laces at her collar and cold, sliding against the pads of her fingers. "Hey, Alistair?"

He sat beside her, drawing his knees up. "Mmm?"

"Long way to the nearest tavern about now, I think."

He nodded, and mercifully, kept his gaze on the way the dust shifted in the bright column of light. "I'm listening."

"We thought it was going to be typical. Just chase someone down, hit them until they hand over the coin, or the jewels, or an agreement to do whatever they'd promised to do. Shouldn't've been as messy as it turned out." She paused again, gulped down a shuddering breath, and kept talking. The words spilled out, rough and raw and too fast.

The way she'd dragged Leske into the proving grounds, the way the both of them had enjoyed it – and she knew they had, they both had, the way they kept grinning at each other, like idiots – and the way they'd stood in Everd's room and decided on it, decided in a heartbeat, the way they usually decided, make the choice and run with it.

The way they'd slipped the poison into Mainar's water, and later, when they'd wrestled her into Everd's armour – Leske'd laughed and she'd smacked him lightly and told him to damn well stick around while she went out into the arena – and when she'd been ushered out, into the waiting hushed silence of them, all of them, nobles, watching her.

"You know," she admitted. "We almost thought we'd gotten away with it. I'd come through all three rounds, still standing. Then that bastard Everd woke up."

"What happened?"

"Guards kicked me until I went down," she said, and shrugged. "Woke up a while later in Beraht's place, locked in a cell with my head sorer than if I'd tried to out-drink a bronto."

"And your friend?"

"Leske was there too. Didn't manage to slither away that time." She rubbed awkwardly at the back of her neck, her fingers catching against the pendant's chain. "So, that's it. We got out of Beraht's place and ran into the guards again. And that's when Duncan was there."

"Maybe a tavern and a lot of ale would have been a good idea," Alistair said mildly.

"You'd go out like a melted candle after two drinks."

"And you never found out what happened to him?"

"No. Not like we could've sent each other letters. He reads worse than I do."

"You know," Alistair said, carefully, as if he was testing the words. "You could try. Looking for him, I mean. Talk to your sister. I don't know. And I don't know if I'm saying the right thing."

"No, it's just," she said, and exhaled sharply. "You walked out of somewhere knowing damn well nothing good's about to happen to the person you left behind?"

"No. No, I suppose not."

"Shit. I'm sorry." She pressed the heels of her hands against her face. "Don't want to argue."

Wryly, he said, "Corryth, we've had arguments. This isn't one. My head isn't even ringing yet."

"Funny." Blankly she stared at the shaft of light until the livid brightness of it stung. "Think we've spent so damn long running around that I shoved it all to the back of my mind. Figured I could think about it later."

"That doesn't always work that well," he said, very gently. "Or at least that's what I remember of a certain conversation we had near Redcliffe."

Despite herself, she grinned. "There are secrets and then there are _secrets_, my prince. Thanks."

"For what?"

"For listening."

* * *

Her rooms at the palace were silent, the fire still crackling under the mantelpiece, and the heavy hanging lamps throwing spots of bright light. Corryth kicked the door closed and scanned the open empty expanse of plush rugs and the table and the armour stand, and the bath. Satisfied that she was alone, she dumped her swordbelt and daggers on the table. She heaved her boots off and winced when she saw the new bruises blooming just above her ankle.

The damn skittering deepstalkers, she reckoned, when they'd broken out of cover and rushed, dozens of them.

She peeled off the rest of her clothes and eased herself into the bath. The water was hot, and stupidly she wondered at it, at which servants had been sent bolting once Prince Bhelen's guests were spotted at the palace gates.

The door opened and she spluttered and sank neck deep, glaring.

"You're back," Rica said, gliding across the threshold.

Her dress was different, Corryth noted, and wondered why such small petty details even mattered. Deepest red and clinging in beautiful rich panels, the pins in her hair topped with crimson jewels.

"Next time, I'm barricading that door," Corryth retorted.

"Bhelen tells me you found Lord Dace."

"Yes, and we also found his agreement for the voting, which I'm sure is much more useful to Prince Bhelen right now." She straightened up. "Sorry. Long day."

"I understand." Rica reached for the soap and passed it across. "Would you like to join me for dinner later?"

Corryth rubbed the soap between her palms. "Just you and me?"

"If you'd like."

She slathered the slippery lather through her hair. "I, ah."

Rica smiled. "Corryth, you're a bad liar. To me, at least. You have something you need to do?"

"Need's such a solemn word." She dunked herself under the surface, emerging to stinging runnels of water and the tangy scent of the soap. "But, yes. I think so. You don't mind?"

"Of course I don't mind. But I will be tying you to a chair and getting to see you at least once before you leave."

"Deal," Corryth said absently. She flicked the dripping ends of her hair out of her eyes. She reached out and caught Rica's wrist, squeezing gently until her wet fingers left spreading marks along her sister's sleeve. "Shit. Sorry."

"No, you aren't," Rica said mildly. "Just be careful."

"When aren't I?"

Rica flung her a knowing smile and left her to the warm water and the lamplight. She idled through another few moments before hauling herself out and onto the rugs again.

Trailing droplets, she dried herself off quickly and roughly and tugged her clothes back on, grimacing when she had to wrestle with them. She squeezed the worst of the water out of her hair and combed the rest of it into place with her fingers.

She was too damn clean, she thought suddenly.

She'd wanted the slow, seeping heat of the bath and now she was too clean.

But she'd been summoned in to see Prince Bhelen the next day, and likely she'd be running herself ragged on some other errand for him that would devour the hours.

"Sod it," she muttered, and slung her swordbelt around her waist. The walk through to Dust Town would likely rub some of the gleam off her. She snapped her daggers into place and stalked out into the corridor.

Out in the city, the air was still warm, tasting metallic and sharp when she breathed in too deeply. She cut a quick path through the Diamond Quarter, head down and footsteps brisk before she was out and in the Commons. She wove her way through to the tall yellow slabs that framed the gateway and stopped, the breath suddenly locking up in her chest.

Stupid, she thought venomously. She knew her way around, knew every inch of the labyrinthine sprawl of this place, the nests of small houses all crammed under low stone roofs and the twisting alleyways that were rarely lit, the storehouses pegged out by the gangs and guarded, always guarded.

Corryth shrugged, steeled herself, and strode under the stone blocks, too aware of the tight strain between her shoulders.

The dryness in the air assailed her first, that parched rasping dryness that clogged eyelashes and lined weapons and clung between layers of fabric. One hand on her sword hilt, she made her way down the wide sweep of the alleyway. Brusquely, she noted movement ahead, footsteps and someone shouting something, and then a yelled response before she ducked around the corner.

Walking fast, she quartered the open stone square ahead, and the one after that, and the third, all of them thronged with the clamour of the afternoon, sellers hawking trinkets and beggars grabbing for coin and Carta muscle, all strapped up in armour and shouldering their way through the crowds. Corryth turned sharply, already guessing she'd been seen.

Outside the tavern – tavern, she thought sourly, the damn place was four walls and a stinking floor and ale that would knock flat a statue just from its scent – she paused, shoulders planted flat against the wall.

Stupid, she thought again. She'd thrown herself at walking trees and lumbering demons she couldn't've named until Wynne explained afterwards and hurled herself hard enough at a werewolf that she'd toppled the bastard. She'd kept herself breathing for all those months up on the surface and now she was being defeated by a fucking door and the triphammer thump of her own heartbeat.

She shoved the door open and stepped inside. A dozen or so steps took her across to where the barkeep stood, elbows braced on the bar.

"Brosca," he said, and grinned. "Thought we'd heard your name floating around."

"Really," she retorted. "Attached to pretty words and prettier deeds, I hope."

"You wish. You're back?"

"For now," she allowed. "Got here a few days ago."

"Your sister's out, right?"

"That she is." She glanced past him, to the tables and the low, sputtering fire in the far corner.

"You looking for something, Brosca?"

"Someone," she said, turning back. "You wouldn't happen to know if Leske's around?"

"He's still on his feet, if that's what you mean."

"Sounds like him," she said flatly, the startling relief of it coiling through her.

"He'd be around," he said. "Drops in most days."

"He still Carta?"

"Course he is." The barkeep tipped his head to one side. "You want me to send one of my boys? Find him?"

She dug a coin out of the purse at her belt, then changed her mind and added another three before laying them on the bar. "You'd be doing me a favour."

"Done enough of those for you for a lifetime, Brosca."

"Sure you have," she responded acidly.

"You want a drink?"

"No, I'm just standing here because I enjoy your company."

He laughed. He turned, and she waited while he found a tankard and filled it, the ale dark and foaming. She nodded to him and grasped the tankard before ambling her way past the bar. She chose a table near the far wall and sat, remembering that the angle would let her see the whole taproom. Idly, she laid one dagger on the table beside the tankard and kept her other hand curled loosely around her sword hilt.

Beraht's blood had fed the stone, along with as many of his men they'd gotten their hands on and their swords into.

Still, she thought, didn't mean there weren't a dozen other bastards down here, older targets she'd probably even forgotten she had anything to do with.

She wasn't sure how long she sat, taking small slow sips of the ale. She watched more than a few traders pad their way in and across to the bar and wondered if she'd known them, before. Some of the afternoon's working girls followed them in, two of them stopping to ask after Rica and whatever stupid tangle Corryth'd managed to get herself webbed in this time.

She was close to the bottom of the tankard and wondering just how much longer she could drag out a single damn drink when the door opened again.

She hid her grin behind the rim of the tankard and waited until he'd crossed the floor.

"Brosca," Leske said, one side of his mouth shifting. "Still alive?"

"Disappointed?"

"Impressed and a little startled," he corrected mildly.

She shoved the other chair out and watched as he sat, scarred, rough hands lying flat on the table. Dark haired and all muscle under his leathers and she swore she could see new scars, tracking down the slope of his neck.

"What bit you?"

"A sword," he answered ruefully.

"Bitch of a place to get swiped."

"True enough."

She lifted the tankard invitingly. "You buying me another?"

Leske grinned. "Come on. I've a half-decent bottle I've just been waiting to waste on someone like you."

"Someone like me," she echoed, deliberately bland. "Charming."

"Like you care, Brosca."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Part Two**_

She trailed Leske out of the tavern, the two of them walking silently, his steps matching hers as if it was a normal day, as if they'd just worn themselves out chasing someone who might've thought they could skim the top layer off Beraht's takings.

Behind the tavern and through another twisting alleyway and then she was hauling herself up a low shelf of rock. The path lead on into gloom, she knew, sweeping around the cold, blank depths of a pool they'd never quite mustered up the nerve to explore all the way to the bottom. She walked beside him, wondering at the ease of it.

Past the rippling water, the track looped up and on again, nestling alongside the steep rise of rock. Another twelve steps and she saw the small lancing lines of light, cutting through the stone roof overhead, dotting the black water.

She sat when he did, slinging her legs over the edge. "This where you take all the girls?"

"Only the ones stupid enough to insist that this place is nice."

"I never called it nice. Did I?"

"Once or twice. While drunk."

She waited until she could see the small, shifting details of the gloom, the lapping water and his hands, broad and clasped over his knees.

"So," Leske said. "You going to start or should I?"

"Thought you were dead already," she told him blandly.

"Why?"

"Took ourselves up into the mountains. Found myself staring at a ghost pretending to be you."

Leske laughed. "Fooled you, did it?"

"For half a heartbeat."

"I'm shocked."

"Looked like you. Even sodding smelled like you." She shrugged and grinned. "Can't blame me for getting confused."

"They say all that air up in the mountains will do that. You're really a Warden?"

"No, I keep pretending and no one's found me out yet."

Leske nudged her. "Your tongue's no more than clever than when you left, Corryth."

"Yes, I'm a Warden, for all the sodding good that'll do topside," she said. She fumbled the pendant up and out of her collar. "Want to touch something with darkspawn blood in it?"

"You always know the best way to get me interested." He caught the pendant, blunt-edged fingers tracing over the edges of it. "So spill it, Brosca. What's it like up there?"

"Cold," she said, before she could think of anything else to say. "Magic up that drink you've been promising and I'll tell you."

"You're a tough bargainer."

"Not with you, but only because I'm soft-hearted under it all."

He twisted, reaching behind and digging into his pack. "Day you become soft-hearted, let me know."

She grinned and caught the bottle he tossed to her. She yanked the stopper out, drank, and started with how the gates had closed on her, on how all she could feel was the sudden biting cold and then Duncan's hands, swathing a cape around her shoulders. How eventually she'd slept through nights clamouring with rain. How she'd learned the terrain of the forests they'd marched through, soft and sliding underfoot and the branches rippling with some magic or other that she couldn't quite see that turned the trees into a maze. How she'd told a mercenary he could go and happily fuck himself instead of trying to trip her up with a shamefully thought-out trap of a plan.

Leske laughed. "Suddenly I'm sad I missed it all."

"Sure you are."

"This, ah, ghost," he said, rougher.

"Yes, alright. I was an idiot."

He grabbed the bottle, jerking it out of her hands. "No, not that. I meant – what did you mean, it was me?"

Corryth shrugged. "That's just it. It was you. Looked like you. Just like you. But, you know. Blurry."

"How did it know to look like me?"

"Guess the last thing I saw of you was you being dragged off by the guards. This thing – the Gauntlet – it got into our heads. Pulled our thoughts apart."

"And it pulled me out of your thoughts?" Leske grinned.

She scowled at him. "Don't get too excited about it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"You know anything about Jarvia?" she asked.

"We both know about Jarvia. Remember?"

"Funny. I mean now. She branching out? Staying in the dirt where she belongs? Getting rich?"

"She's the power in Dust Town right now, true enough," Leske said, his voice roughening.

"What's she got her claws in?"

"Gems, weapons, armour. Talk is that she's trying to expand. Out of Dust Town."

"Damn. Bitch's still got balls, I'll say that." She frowned. "You know what I mean."

"Yes," he said, laughing. "I do."

She reached for the bottle, her fingers sliding against his. "So tell me. How'd you manage to not get yourself strung up and slaughtered for helping me in the Provings?"

Leske shrugged. "Just stayed low. Wasn't me they were really interested in, for once."

"Shame."

"Hey, you put that armour on."

"Because it wouldn't fit you."

"Pass the blame all you want, Brosca."

"I could barely breathe in that sodding armour, I'll have you know. Took me days to walk off the dent it left in my back." She was laughing suddenly, ridiculously, and she could feel his shoulders shaking with his own laughter.

She moved, drawing her knees up and onto the stone. She hid her grin when he mirrored her, the tips of his boots touching hers and his arms around his shins.

"Missed this," she said quietly.

"You've been gone a while."

"Look," she said, and stopped.

"Hey, it's alright." He tapped the side of her foot. "I know you're out of here once you get this sorted."

"Sorted," she repeated sourly. "I'd almost put money on the fact that they're worse up at the palace than we are."

"You mean at least we cut corners and don't waste time?"

"If by that you mean that we prefer weapons over words, then yes."

Leske grabbed at the bottle, tipping it up. She watched the indolent motions of his hands before he passed the bottle across to her.

"You said Bhelen'd sent you off into the Deep Roads. Any idea what he might want next?"

She shrugged. "If he asks me to dance, I'll be shocked."

"So will I, unless he pours three bottles of mosswine down your throat first. Then you might be all for it."

Corryth thumped his knee lightly. "Truthfully? Not sure where he's going with this. But I need the bastard to kick at the Assembly, so here's me, running around on his say-so until the deshyrs start nodding."

"We're always running around on someone's say-so."

"You're smart when you want to be."

It'd been too long, she thought, too long since they'd done this, simply taken themselves away to the silence of this place and sat and looked at each other.

Too long since the gates and Duncan and the way he'd locked his hands over her shoulders when she'd snapped and snarled that she wasn't done, wasn't ready, couldn't go, not yet, _not yet_ because she didn't know where Leske was.

"I asked," Leske said thickly. "About where you'd gone. Didn't get very far. No one wanted to say much, even the bastards who took you to the gate."

She blinked. "What did they say?"

"Mostly that I was lucky I still had my head on my shoulders. That and Warden business."

She searched his face, the angles of his cheekbones crossed with scars on one side and his brand on the other and a longer scar carving under the stubborn line of his jaw. She'd seen that one happen, she remembered, and it'd been a stupid tavern brawl that switched from fists to knives too quickly. The point of a dagger had caught under his skin and dragged, close to opening his throat chin to the back of his jawbone. She'd shoved him down and turned her anger on the bastard who'd done it, throwing herself at him until he'd staggered and she had her sword buried in his gut.

And then they'd spent a messy few hours with a folded cloth pressed up against Leske's neck and Corryth wondering just how she might be able to lift a handful of salve from Beraht's place without anyone looking twice at her.

"What aren't you saying?"

"Me?" Leske grinned. "I'm madly in love with a rich widow. She's older than me, but damn if she doesn't look good still. And she's moving me into the Diamond Quarter day after tomorrow."

She laughed. "Right."

"I'm just," he said, and shrugged. "Strange seeing you. That's all."

"Leske. I know you and you know me and you can't keep a secret from me to save your hide."

"It's not," he said, and stopped again. "Sodding stone, Brosca. You're here and I haven't seen you for so long. That's it. That's all. Didn't think you'd be coming back, and here you are."

"Sorry to disappoint," she said drily.

"No, that's not," Leske said. He shook his head. "Shit."

"I'm dazzling you, am I? Sending your mind all jumbled up?"

"Always," he retorted briskly. "Just missed you. Hasn't been the same."

"And you said that mostly sober? Damn."

"Said I missed you. Not your charming way with words."

Corryth hid a smile behind the bottle and drank again. "Anything else happened?"

"Your sister took off for the palace," he said thoughtfully. "It was a boy?"

"You think she'd be there otherwise?"

He shrugged, conceding. "She alright?"

"She's fed and clothed and damned if I couldn't count the jewels on the dresses she's wearing now."

"Doesn't mean she's alright."

"It was her idea," she snapped, rougher than she meant to.

Leske lifted his hands. "And we've argued this one through before, I know."

For long, silent moments she stared down at the dark water, as mercilessly and unyieldingly blank as it had always been. They'd not quite betted on breathing this long, she thought wryly, neither of them. Not since – years ago, so long ago – he'd told her she'd have an extra hand this morning and she'd told him she didn't need anyone tagging along with her regardless.

"What's funny?" Leske demanded.

She realised she was laughing, quietly and almost painfully. "You," she said. "Remember that first day? How Beraht ordered you to come shadow me, and we got ourselves into a tavern fight that same day?"

"Course. Course, I also remember that you started that fight."

"Didn't," she mumbled. "Just uh, hastened it on its way to its beginning."

Leske grinned. "Beraht was furious. Remember?"

"I remember." He had been, she recalled, spitting fury that both of them had gotten walloped and that both of them were behind on the takings for the day. "Worth it in the end, though."

"Yes," he said, his grin widening.

"What?" she asked, and slapped his shin lightly.

"You, making me think."

"Tough task?" she said, deliberately deadpan.

"You remember when you broke your hand trying to punch out, what was his name?"

"You mean the lyrium trader," she said, and groaned. "Smuggler. And I didn't break my hand. I bruised it. Badly."

"Not my fault you couldn't swing worth a damn."

"I was young," she told him, and felt herself smile. "That was years ago."

"Your turn," he said, and she wondered if she was imagining it, the odd softness at the corners of his eyes, half-hidden by shadows.

"Second time we went into the Deep Roads."

Leske frowned. "Sodding ancestors, you would think of that one."

"Hey, not my fault you were as hungover as I was." It was absurdly easy, she thought, the way they'd slipped back into it, the way they always sounded. Almost as if she'd be able to pretend that the rest of it was far enough away not to matter.

"And we still went."

"Made a bet," she said mildly.

"We're bad at that," he told her, protesting. He scooped up the bottle. "Well, maybe not bad at it, just bad at following through."

"Saw a darkspawn tip off your feet, as I remember."

"He did. And yes, he almost had me."

"Until I saved your worthless skin."

Leske laughed. "Something like that. Why did we think that was a good idea?"

"Something about jewels, darkness and adventure?"

"Doesn't sound all that appealing."

"Did at the time."

"Why did it?" he asked roughly.

"Because," Corryth said, and stopped. "You know, I can't think of a good reason. A few stupid ones, maybe."

"Because we thought it was a good idea," Leske said.

"Because we might've gotten paid."

"Because we had nothing better to do."

"You might be right."

"We're always right." He smiled then, the movement of it softening the blunt angles of his face.

The silence ran on between them while she hooked up the bottle again. Corryth closed her fingers around the neck and said, "Anyone step into Beraht's shadow?"

"Not really."

"What's that mean?"

He shrugged and reached for the bottle. "You know what it's like. You get half a dozen of them vying for it, but no one's really stepped in. Jarvia's made it damn clear that it's her territory."

She nodded, understanding. She'd hated Jarvia – still did, if she thought about it – but she'd understood, because that was how you kept breathing, kept going. "What about you?"

"What about me?"

"What's your plan?"

He shrugged. His gaze dipped down to the bottle, halfway to empty. "Just what we always did. Except it's just me."

"Damn. That hurt my feelings."

"No, it didn't," he said, grinning.

"You want to," she said, and hesitated. It was stupid, damn stupid, since she knew full well he belonged here, that they both had. Here where the only decisions that mattered were the brash, right-now kind, the kind that kept you alive through the next day, the next afternoon, the next job. "You want to come with me? Shit. No. Forget I said anything."

For long moments he stayed silent, startling her. The bottle chimed onto the stone between his boots. "Why'd you have to go and ask that, Corryth?"

"Never know when to keep my mouth shut, you know that," she said, and wondered why it ached suddenly, deep in her throat.

"Not really my kind of place, up there," he said, half-smiling.

"Mine neither."

"You're alive," Leske said, sharper. "Must be doing something right. Hey, Corryth?"

She made herself look up and found him already looking back at her, searchingly, his eyes clouded with something very like regret.

"What? Leske, what?"

"Thanks for asking."

She shrugged and grabbed at the bottle. Two swallows numbed the tightness in her throat, and another one made her splutter. Banishing the urge to ask again – his choice, she knew, and if they were the other way round, if it was him asking her, she'd've likely laughed and told him not to burn his heels on his way out – she laid the bottle down.

"So when're you leaving?" Leske asked.

"What?"

"You're leaving, right? After this?"

"Yes," she said. "Got to. There's a thousand thousand darkspawn up there, running around on the surface and making a nuisance of themselves."

Leske grinned. "That many, huh?"

"Don't know. Didn't stop to count them at Ostagar."

"You take care of yourself, alright?"

"Stop. You're making me blush."

"You don't know how."

"Never know. I might've learned."

"You?" he said.

"Hey, I always said I was slow to learn. Not that I never do."

"You have your moments." His smile returned, softer at the edges. "You not sleeping, Brosca?"

"What?" She mustered up a quick scowl in response, mostly feigned. He'd seen through it – seen through her – like he always did, through the quick grins and the words she flung up between them as if they might be a shield. How he must've seen it, the shadows that clung to her eyes, the way the months on the surface had whittled her face down to rough angles. How the sun had brushed her forehead and the backs of her hands and the bridge of her nose. "No, it's just – I have strange thoughts in my head now."

"Only now?"

She yanked the bottle out of his hands. "Hah. It's – can't explain it. Just sounds."

"What sounds?"

"Like the Deep Roads, but – in me. Stuck inside me."

He searched her face, his eyes dark and raking. "You messing around with me?"

"No. It's what being a Warden does."

"And you're going to," he said, and stopped. "Shit. I sound like an idiot. Want to ask if you'll be alright."

"Well," Corryth said, and found herself smiling, because how many times had they done this, fenced with the words until they both knew damn well what they were saying, until one or both of them ended up laughing. "You're often an idiot. But if you asked if I'll be alright, I'd tell you I would."

"And then I'd tell you keep yourself breathing to stay that way."

"And then I'd tell you that of course I will. I'm the smart one, remember?"

"And then I'd tell you that you're still the stubborn one."

She dropped the empty bottle onto the stone beside his boots. She'd have to take herself back up to the palace, she knew, and soon, take herself back up and wash off the grime and the dust so Rica might not guess where she'd been. She'd have to walk away again.

"Hey, I," she said, and stupidly the words ran dry.

"Me too."

"You have no sodding idea what I was going to say."

Leske grinned. "How do you know?"

"Bastard." For long moments she looked at him, as if she might map out all the angles and irregularities of him, solid muscle and scars and long roped-back dark hair that damn him he still wouldn't chop shorter. Out of obstinacy or plain bloody-minded laziness despite how many times he'd been yanked almost off his feet in a fight. Leathers that were a patchwork, faded mess, rubbed shiny over his elbows and the back of his wrists. "Didn't think we'd last this long."

"We have and we'll keep lasting."

"That's a promise?"

He moved then, his fingers against her face until he found her brand, tracing the sharp black edges of it. "That's a bet, Brosca."

* * *

By the time she was back at the palace, Corryth's thoughts were roiling. Firmly she shoved them aside, because sometimes you had to, had to will your mind flat. In her rooms she brushed most of the dust off the tops of her boots and gave her leathers a brief going-over.

After slapping a handful of cold water through her hair, she shrugged and made her way down into the small dining room. There she was almost unsurprised to find Alistair still awake, one elbow on the table and his other hand sloped on the mabari's head, the huge dog curled up against the bench beside him.

"Hello," he said mildly.

When – mercifully – he didn't say anything else, she just sat beside him, reaching past his arm for whatever he'd left on the plate. She settled on a slice of salted meat and said, "I was in Dust Town."

"I could say I was worried," Alistair said teasingly. "But then I'd have to pretend I don't know you."

"I found Leske."

Alistair straightened up. "Is he alright?"

"Still kicking around," she said, and found herself smiling. "Looked the same, sounded the same."

"Feel better?"

"Now you're making fun of me," she protested. "Yes. I do. Sort of. Should've gone sooner. Shit, it sounds stupid, but we'd done everything together for so long. Strange to be wandering around Dust Town not knowing where he was."

"Why sort of?"

"What? Oh." She twisted around on the bench so she could look up at him, his face as open and listening. Even so, the words wouldn't come, not properly, because Leske'd been almost _too much_ like himself, too like she'd remembered. "Just – I don't know. Looked the same, sounded the same. Both of us. Didn't feel the same. Sort of. I don't know."

Gently, Alistair said, "It's been a long time."

"I know." She grinned, the motion of it forced, and she suspected he knew. "I'm alright. Chasing myself in circles."

"Never a good idea. Also tiring."

"You're always so smart." She spun his plate between them. "He just – I feel like I missed something. And I never miss something with Leske."

Alistair's gaze flicked past her, past her again, and back. "So, when you say you were friends?"

"You mean was it ever anything more? Not really," she said, and it was a lie, or at least the bladed edge of one, smothered behind her laughter. "What would've been the point? Nothing in it for him or for me, rolling around with another casteless duster."

Alistair blinked. "You have such a way with words, Corryth."

"You've gotten yourself used to it."

"I'll give you that."

She grinned again, softer this time and meaning it. She was about to retort, cut off when the door opened, one of Bhelen's servants pausing on the rug.

"Yes?" She'd barked the word out, she realised. Softer, she said, "What is it?"

"Prince Bhelen wishes to see you, Warden."

"Right now? I thought - "

"Yes, Warden."

"Alright. Tell him we'll both be there soon."

The servant hesitated, his gaze flicking past her to Alistair, to how Alistair seemed to take up too much space on the bench, his fighter's frame tall and rangy even out of his armour.

"Of course, Warden."

Long moments later she was led into the prince's rooms, Alistair trailing her. A fierce blaze of candlelight met her first, and the gleam of gem-encrusted goblets on the small table. As measuredly poised as he'd been since she'd first walked through the palace doors, Bhelen stood just behind the table. Chainmail mantled his shoulders, and the look he turned on her was as brightly severe.

"Warden," Bhelen said, his chin dipping slightly.

"You wanted to see us?"

"Yes." As unwaveringly, he said, "You know your way around Dust Town."

"Good as anyone," she said flatly.

"Then you know a woman by the name of Jarvia. At least, that's what I'm told."

Corryth smiled thinly. "I might. Might have to ask around a bit. Well, I say ask. Dig around."

"Discreetly, I assume."

"Sure."

"I have information that suggests she will be attempting to move her interests out of Dust Town."

"And that's when it's suddenly a problem for you," Corryth said, and smirked. "That shocks me, it does. Knocks me right off my feet."

"You still wish my help?" Bhelen asked.

As coldly, she said, "You still want mine?" Slowly she unclamped her hands from where she'd clenched them around her belt. She could feel Alistair shifting beside her, uncertain. "What's it I have to do?"

"I'm told you've had dealings with her before," Bhelen said.

"A few," she said.

"Then find her, and remove her, and anyone you discover who supports her."

"Remove her. Sounds so tidy, put like that. All neat. That's it?"

"Yes," Bhelen said. "That is it. If you will do it."

"Course I will. I've started keeping my promises."


	3. Chapter 3

_**Part Three**_

Even this late, Dust Town was thronged, as she'd guessed it would be. They'd been stared at since they'd stepped through the gates, and painfully she knew there was no way they'd slip in anything close to unnoticed. She'd expected it, she supposed, and taken them on a meandering path between the leaning roofs and across the narrow stone bridges that rose over slick dark water. Alistair had asked and she'd answered that she'd try and take them in the long way so whoever might see Leske that same day might think it was all on her, the brand, the one who'd come back wearing a Warden pendant.

That it might be enough to keep Leske breathing through another night.

_Night_, she thought. She was still thinking of it as night, or as day, instead of how they used to measure it, the crawling impatience between jobs.

At the doors they discovered six of Jarvia's men, the first one spitting out her name in the instants before she ploughed into him, sending him off his feet. It was over quickly, the last of the bastards crumpling under the solid sweep of Alistair's shield. As briskly, Corryth wrestled with the locks until she had the doors open, motioning the others in behind her.

Stale air assailed her, and then the flicker of torches. She paused, listening, every nerve under her skin tightening.

"You sure you know where we're going?" Alistair murmured.

"I know this place," she said. "I can guess where we'll find her. We'll move fast and quiet until they work out what's going on."

Zevran grinned. "And when they do?"

"Then we'll stay fast and not worry about being quiet," she responded, deliberately echoing his indolent tone.

The long stretch of the corridor ahead stayed empty. Too often her boots scraped through loose stone and she paused, listening for any change in the smothering silence. Unbidden – because _damn it_ she'd tried to keep it buried – the memory of it seethed up.

How she'd woken, her skull clanging with how the guards had finally knocked her cold. How her whole body had felt bruised, aching up and down both legs and the nape of her neck throbbing. How she'd clambered her way back up, hands rough against the bars, and briefly wondered whether the guards had known to hand her back over to Beraht, or if he'd come sauntering in and just demanded her.

_"Hey. Hey, Brosca? You there in your own head this time?"_

_ She pried her eyes open properly and noticed the air first, heavy and cloying. A stretch of dusty ground in front of her, and more bars, and then Leske, looking as shaken up as she probably did. Bruises circled one of his eyes, and blood snaked thick down the side of his neck. _

_ "They got your weapons?" she said. _

_ "All of them," he said sourly. _

_ She leaned into the bars, the metal cold against her forehead. Beraht'd kicked them in the teeth before of course, that time when they'd messed up a collection. That time when they'd gone too far asking some poor duster just where his share might be hiding. That time when they'd thought it was a great idea to lift a couple – a few, well, a lot – of wineskins from the day's takings. _

_ Those had mostly landed them with a few kicks in the head, or being told to sod off and forget payment for a few days, or that deliberate way Beraht had of choosing the worst damn jobs and smirking when he handed them out. _

_ This, she thought grimly, was different. Very different. This was the two of them in sodding cells, their weapons and half their clothes stripped off and she'd bet her own bones that it was because she'd embarrassed Beraht. Because it had been at the Provings, up where the air wasn't as thick, because it was up with the others. _

_ It took too long, scrabbling around in the dust and the grime and whatever else littered the floor. Eventually her hands closed on tiny slivers she thought she might be able to ease into the locks. They'd be halfway to rusted, anyway, if she guessed right. _

_ Long terse moments crawled past while she fought with the lock. It gave in finally, creaking open, the sound seeming startlingly loud. Corryth waited, shoulders rigid, listening. Silence answered her, so she eased the door open and padded across to the other cell. She turned her attention to the other lock, aware of the uneven way Leske was breathing, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. _

_ "Clear?" she hissed. _

_ "Still clear. Hurry up." _

_ "Do you want to do this?" _

_ The door swung open, and he stepped past her, his footsteps careful. "Well, this is wonderful," he muttered. _

_ "Keep being so cheerful and I'll leave you here," Corryth muttered. "Plan?" _

_ "Sneak out, pick up some weapons along the way, and hope that somehow Jarvia and Beraht forget about this?" _

_ She grinned. "Right. And what you really meant to say, was..?" _

_ "You're crazy. I'm not going up against them over this." _

_ She raised her hands. "Look. I'm not saying we set out to do anything stupid."_

_ "Right. Because we _never_ set out to do anything stupid."_

_ "I'm saying we need weapons, and if they try and stop us, we hit back." _

_ He scowled. "This isn't funny." _

_ "I know," she snapped. "Hasn't been funny since Everd walked back out into that damned arena."_

_ The corner of Leske's mouth shifted, slowly, as if he hadn't quite meant to. "I don't know. That part was funny."_

_ "Sure. You imagining the look on my face. Hilarious."_

_ "I'm sure it was."_

_ She elbowed her way past him, pausing at the door. Close to frantic, she stared at the empty sweep of the floor around them and wished there'd've been anything left there, anything she could wrap her hands around and use as a weapon. _

_ "Hey. Brosca?"_

_ "What?" she snapped. _

_ "We'll get through this. Come on."_

_ "Yes," she said, and swallowed. "Course we will."_

_ "You and me." He caught her wrist, his hand wrapping hard over the wild thrum of her pulse. _

She remembered how they'd slithered and crept their way through the warren of passageways until they'd walked smack into guards. The noise had brought more, and then more, and somehow they'd broken through them.

She remembered Beraht and how they'd found him, almost accidentally. She remembered the feel of his skin giving way under her hands, his neck coming apart, her fingers catching on bone, the damned sounds he made, his heels scraping at the floor.

Somewhere between that room and the streets outside, her thoughts floundered. She tried to pluck it out and failed. She _knew_ they'd picked themselves up and dragged each other out of Beraht's rooms, both of them bruised and filthy. How they'd stopped, foolishly, her legs close to buckling and his no better and they'd held each other up.

_Halfway to laughter and her throat all swollen with relief, and ancestors but he reeked of blood and she supposed she did as well. _

"_Hey. Hey, Brosca? Corryth?"_

_She blinked, her eyes stinging. "Here," she mumbled. She was still leaning into him, her forehead sliding against his as they clung to each other. "Not out yet."_

"_No." Leske grinned somehow, his mouth all ringed with blood. _

"_Alright. Ready?"_

"_Ready." _

"Hey, Corryth?"

Someone's hand brushed her arm and she recoiled. "What?"

Alistair blinked down at her. "Are you alright?"

"Fine. Course I'm fine." She forced her thoughts flat. Peering under the arch of his arm, she nodded. "Through there. We're close."

* * *

From paces ahead she could see that the door was unlocked, partly open even, lanterns flickering inside. When she glanced at Alistair, she saw her own thoughts on his face, in the way his eyes were narrowed, wary.

Steeling herself, she motioned Zevran and Morrigan back. Another few steps took her up to the door. Alistair tilted his shield so that the solid curve of it sheltered her shoulder and she found herself smiling slightly. When he kicked the door open, she stayed close, too jarringly ready for a bolt, or a flung dagger.

Past the edge of Alistair's shield, she saw pillars and stacked crates and the fluttering lanterns. Shadows shifted, sloping across the floor and briskly she tried to count how many footsteps she thought she heard. She turned, Alistair following her, and her gaze locked on Jarvia.

Brash as she'd always been, leaning back against one of the pillars and her solid frame leather-clad.

"Brosca," Jarvia said, and grinned. "Here on Prince Bhelen's say-so, right? A fine day indeed that you bring the word of a sodding prince to our doors."

She stayed silent, her hand tightening on her sword hilt. Her gaze stayed on Jarvia's face, on the way the damnable woman was still smiling.

"This to do with your sister's brat, or something about you being a Warden now?"

"To do with having to see you removed," Corryth said blandly.

"That all?"

"You want to settle this simple? You and me?"

Jarvia laughed. "And then what? You try to kill the rest of my men?"

"Well. We wouldn't _try." _

"You're blind, Brosca. Always have been, when the ground shifts under you and it's just you who can't see it."

"You want to stop swapping words now?"

Jarvia shifted. Corryth followed her gaze and froze.

_Stupid_, she thought, the sudden truth a hook in her belly. She'd been damn stupid, and she'd spilled _everything_ and now she was fucking well staring at him, at Leske, while he had that guileless look still stamped on his face.

Without thinking she shoved past Alistair. Her dagger sheared free, both blades cutting the air. Somewhere behind Jarvia the rest of her men moved, but the bitch waved them back.

Somehow she dragged her attention back to Leske. "Left out a few details?"

"A few."

"Figures. I'm an idiot," she said, never once looking away from him.

Absurdly – and it bit deep and frantic – she shoved back the urge to ask him to stand beside her, to turn his back on the rest of it and stand with her. Part of her _wanted_ him to, wanted him to grin and say he'd been keeping secrets alright, the kind of secrets that would get them both through the day breathing.

The other part of her understood, however it had its hooks in her. You caught onto whatever held you up, and clung onto it until it fell apart and then you moved on.

Leske drew his sword, casually, the motion masking the wiry strength in his frame. "You're not going to ask me why, Brosca?"

"What's to ask? You went where they'd keep you safe." She heard her own voice ring hard and bleak and angry.

"Thought you might not've come here."

"What _did_ you think? Your mistress is biting at Bhelen's heels, and you thought this wouldn't happen?"

Fury flashed across his face. "She's not my – sodding stone, Brosca."

"Stop saying my name and decide what you want to do."

"You don't get to walk out of here."

"I'm shocked," she said flatly. "And you want me all to yourself, do you?"

"_Yes_." He swallowed, eyes narrowing as if he'd startled himself. "No one else gets to do this."

She grinned, vicious and mocking. "I'm touched. No, really, I am."

He lifted his sword, the light catching across the flat of the blade. "It was good to see you," Leske said quietly.

"Yes." Something very close to a laugh stuck in her throat, painful and thick. "You too."

He was talking too damn much and so was she and she understood. When they moved – and she'd bet her skin it'd be her moving first – however it went, however it ended, they'd be over.

She wanted to say something goading, something she knew would get him riled, something about how she was probably faster and he might be broader across the shoulders but he _knew_ she could have him on his back. Something about how she knew how he fought – _and he knew how she did, brash and venomous _– and how they'd tire each other stupid before either of them might get within an inch of winning.

How she'd missed him.

"Hey, Leske?" she said, and heard the way her own voice faltered.

He smiled, the movement there and gone quickly, his eyes fixed on her. "Yes?"

"You and me?"

"You and me."

She did move first in the end, pushing off one foot. Leske turned shoulder-first, meeting her stroke, his sword crashing into hers, hard enough to jar her to her wrist bones.

Behind, she heard Alistair shout for the others to move up with him. Zevran snapped something back, and the rippling heat of some spell Morrigan spun up blurred the air. Ahead, she was vaguely aware of Jarvia's men, spilling past her, cutting the others off.

Fiercely Corryth found that she barely cared. Instead, her attention was narrow, fixed and furious, and locked on the dipping motion of Leske's sword as he twisted. His shoulder slammed into hers, driving her back a pace. She darted back another two, giving herself space.

He was _dancing_ with her, and unaccountably, the angry knot in her chest tightened. She jabbed an elbow into his side, clashed his sword aside, and when he staggered, Corryth snapped, "_Stop_ whatever you're doing and damn well fight."

His next stroke numbed her arm. The one after that sent her swaying, and the third she blocked with shaking hands.

"Better," she said, and grinned mirthlessly.

She flung herself at him again, the edge of her sword whining past his shoulder when he darted aside. The flat of her dagger slapped hard against his upraised forearm. He stumbled, and she saw his face twist, startled. A kick to the inside of his leg staggered him. Furiously he responded, digging one elbow hard under her ribs.

She was too slow righting herself. When he ploughed wholesale into her, shoulder-first into her chest, she lost her footing. She hit the ground, the impact driving the breath out of her. Her sword-hand juddered hard, her fingers snapping open reflexively. Leske shoved the hilt out of her grip, the blade spinning away. He had one knee flattening her other arm, her dagger trapped uselessly, and the rest of his weight pitched to keep her pinioned.

When he leaned forward, his sword arcing down, Corryth drove both knees up and into his back. The impetus jolted him awkwardly, the point of his sword catching against her shoulder and dragging. The sudden flare of pain made her cry out. Frantic, she twisted sideways, tipping him off her.

She needed space, she knew, space and distance and damn it but she couldn't quite get her hand to her dagger, the blade inches too far. _No_, she thought, because there was no sodding way she was offering up her back to him while she scrabbled around in the dust for her weapons. Instead she turned, flinched back from the next swing of his sword, and landed a clumsy kick to his knee. When he swayed, she grabbed his wrist in both hands and twisted sharply.

Leske laughed, his lips parting in an incredulous grin. "Really?"

"Really," she said, and painfully found herself grinning back at him.

He moved, heaving them both back a pace. Every joint in her hands protesting, she wrenched at his wrist until his sword dipped, and then dropped. He stumbled, one hand catching her arm and gripping, punishingly hard. A kick to his ankles toppled him, but as he fell she realised he still had his grasp on her arm.

Jarred, Corryth scrambled for purchase. Yanking her arm free, she hammered her foot into his side, doubling him over. She heard the rattling wheeze of his breath and knew she needed to be moving, and fast, before he was back up.

"What are you doing?" Halfway to upright, Leske glared at her. "Brosca. What do you think you're doing?"

"Waiting for you," she retorted. "Used to take more than a kick in the ribs to keep you down."

"Maybe I'm just going easy on you."

"Don't," she said, the word rolling blunt and honest off her tongue.

Something changed in his face, shifting, giving in.

When he lunged for his sword, she closed the distance between them, the back of her arm slamming against the inside of his hard enough that she saw him wince. Corryth kept moving, spinning him off-balance. His other hand closed and locked over her wrist. She staggered against him, her heels sliding. Desperately she jammed her elbow under his ribs, where she'd kicked him, and felt him shudder. Another lashing blow to the side of his jaw had him spitting blood.

Whatever small bit of time she'd hoped to wrest back she lost, because as soon as she hurled herself after her dagger, she heard him closing in behind her. Clumsily she scooped the dagger up. She whirled blindly, teeth gritted.

He _was_ too close, she saw immediately, and the thudding impact of his shoulder threw them both onto the ground. She hit first, the air shuddering from her chest. Frantic, she rolled herself on top of him, the spread of her knees pinning his legs. His fist crashed her head sideways, blood slicking one side of her tongue. Furious, she shoved his other arm aside and drove the dagger down.

The blade punched through empty air and into Leske's throat.

Eyes narrowed – prickling with grit or dust or something else – she dragged the dagger across and back again until it caught against bone, the way she'd been taught. His whole body heaved under her, his hands going slack first.

"Hey. Hey. Hey," she said again, stupidly, her voice thick. She dropped the dagger. Her gloves were wet and warm and she didn't want to look at them. Shaking, she cradled his head. Her thumb brushed his brand. She watched – _made herself watch, aching_ – until there was nothing left in the blank glaze of his eyes.

Her thoughts a useless grey wall, she leaned forward, onto him, until her forehead was against his shoulder.

Someone touched her arm. She recoiled, still shivering after she'd realised she was looking at Alistair.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She shook her head. She had Leske's blood in her hair, matting it.

"I'm sorry," Alistair said again. "But we need to go. Soon."

"You're sorry," she echoed numbly.

"Corryth?"

She shook her head again. She stood, her stomach twisting when she stumbled over him. Except it wasn't him, she thought dimly, not any more, not since she'd opened his throat.

Her legs buckled and she was almost angry when Alistair caught her. No, she thought, she _was_ angry, and it was a churning, sickening knot in her stomach. She tried to snarl at him that she was _fine_ and couldn't he damn well use his eyes and _see_ that but then he knelt and propped her up. One of his arms crossed over her back and she shuddered, collapsing against his shoulder.

Mercifully he kept his mouth shut, and didn't try to chivvy her onto her feet, or say anything. Instead, he simply stayed kneeling so she could bury herself against him.

"Alright," she said eventually, her lips and tongue uselessly heavy. "Let's go."

* * *

At the palace, she made herself stand in front of Prince Bhelen long enough to tell him it was done, over, that Jarvia'd been cut down along with her men. With her gaze pinned on the hanging lamps past his shoulder – so she couldn't see the bastard's face when he smiled – she added that word would likely already be spilling through Dust Town, every grimy detail of just who'd been digging around and kicking up Carta trouble.

"Ah, but you are a Warden now, aren't you?"

"Yes," Corryth said, grating the word out. "Anything else?"

"No. You may leave."

"I may, may I?" she muttered. "Thanks. So much."

Later, in her rooms, she locked the door. For long moments she stared at the door, at her hands fanned out against it, her gloves still glossy with blood. When she turned, the sudden rush of the tension emptying from her shoulders made her stagger. She sat before her knees could give up on her, her back to the door.

Afterwards she wasn't sure how long she sat, gritty-eyed and staring at nothing. Two people – at least – had knocked at the door and she'd snarled at them to leave her alone. When someone else tried, she thumped the door and snapped, "What?"

"It's me," Alistair answered mildly.

"You going to sod off if I tell you to?"

"Only if you really want me to."

Corryth groaned. Dragging herself upright, she hauled the door open. He'd cleaned up, she noticed, his armour gone and the soft folds of that tunic even _she'd_ considered worn close to useless mantling his broad frame.

Once he was in the room she closed the door again and sat with her shoulders against it.

"Who killed Jarvia?"

Alistair sat beside her, his legs stretched out. "In the end I did," he said quietly.

"Thanks."

"Look," he said, after the silence stretched, glassy and febrile. "I'll be honest. I don't know what to say right now. But if you want to say anything, or if you want me to go, just let me know."

She nodded, mainly because she didn't quite trust her voice to work. She wasn't sure how long they sat there, wordless, until she realised her back was aching. She swallowed, licked at dry lips and said, "You know, I realised earlier that I don't even remember how we got back to the palace."

Alistair shifted. "Very quickly."

"I'm an idiot. Blind idiot."

"You trusted him, that's all."

"And I shouldn't've," she snapped. The words rolled off her tongue, harsh and relentless. "Can't believe I stood there and thought it and then I _said _it, I damn well said, well, I'll take us in the long way because I don't want to drop Leske in a heap of trouble. How didn't I – sodding _stone_, why didn't I see it?"

"Because he was your friend," Alistair said evenly.

"Yes, and that nearly got me knifed in the back over it." She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyelids. "Why am I angry at you? And I know why. It's because you're here and I've no one else to lash out at."

When he pried her hands away from her face, she flinched. His grip loosened, but he kept her hands cradled between his. When she nodded, he peeled her gloves off, the leather filthy and stiff with blood, the thick coppery stink of it filling her mouth.

"I'll get them to bring you some hot water," he said. "And I'll go fetch some salves."

"I'm fine."

"Corryth, you're a mess," he said mildly, not censuring. "You're black and blue."

She nodded. Alistair stood, urging her onto her feet. She gave in and let him coax her across to the bed. Carefully, his hands never once lingering, he unbuckled her sword and her dagger.

After the servants brought water, and after he'd come back with a wrapped pack of salves from Wynne, she was finally alone again.

She did sink into the bath, briefly, after she'd shed her clothes, her hands trembling. She stayed in long enough to rub the soap through her hair but the water was ribboned red and her stomach lurched.

Later, curled under the sheets, she left the lamps burning so she could stare at them until they seemed to shimmer, her eyes achingly dry.

* * *

Days later in the Deep Roads – tracking a sodding missing Paragon of all things – she'd still barely slept. Her mind buzzed with the darkspawn, with the sound of them in the stone around them. With how they crept and followed and glided through the stone passageways as if they knew them as easy as breathing.

Down here it was too far in, she thought. Down here the air didn't move, and the caverns were high and unbroken and the pool she'd found on the fourth day had been stagnant and thick. Long dragging days had taken them through the place Oghren'd called Caridin's Cross and finally to the crumbling bridges of Ortan Thaig.

Dead air and no loot worth salvaging, she'd thought. Darkspawn marks gouged on the floor and the walls and the whole of the empty city stank of them. Beneath the bridges the river slid dank and lightless.

The cavern was too open, she thought, too horribly exposed, so she called the others on through the rest of the afternoon, or whatever it was, down here. Down here, she supposed, time was measured only in footsteps, or the burning of fires or the stash of candles and flint and lanterns, used only when they absolutely needed to.

Corryth surrendered to first watch, purloined one of the wineskins, and took herself off to the edge of their camp. Their _camp_, she thought wryly, which was a pitiful patch of ground hidden in a stone alcove, the walls damp and gleaming and just enough room to move to respond if they were discovered. Shoulders stiff, she sat, vaguely aware of the others as they ate, or talked, or cleaned weapons.

Alistair sat beside her wordlessly, accepting the wineskin when she handed it across.

"I hate it down here," she said, startling herself that she'd spoken first, that she'd _wanted_ to. "And don't make any jokes about how I'm supposed to be a natural or something."

"I wouldn't dare."

"It's getting louder."

He nodded. "I know. Some of the time I can't work out if I'm actually hearing them, or if it's in my head. Or both. Which isn't comforting."

"We meet this Paragon, I'm likely to kick her in the teeth for hauling us down so deep here."

Alistair laughed, breathlessly, as if he hadn't meant to. "Fair enough."

"Oghren says he can see her trail. Where she's been."

"You're doubting that?"

Corryth shrugged. "No. Not really. I know what he means, sort of. I can see the paths in the stone. Through the stone. Feel the air changing when we move forward. Guess it means we probably won't get too lost."

"Comforting," Alistair said, and passed the wineskin back. "Corryth, do you mind if I say something?"

She shrugged. "Got nowhere else to go right now."

He turned slightly, his gaze fixing on where the stone curled around, unfolding out again into the narrow passageway beyond. "You've barely spoken."

"You remember that day in the palace, when I said I thought there was something – Leske'd not said something."

"I remember."

"I thought," she said, and tipped the wineskin up. "I thought it was just that he didn't know what to say. I thought it was – I thought it was that we just hadn't talked in so long. That he'd maybe found someone else. You know, to run with. To - I didn't want to know what it was. Foolish."

He shifted, and she felt the way he was looking down at her, hesitant and uncertain. "Corryth – "

"You tell me one more damn time that it's not my fault and I'll gut you," she muttered. Her eyes flooded and she swiped at them. "Shit. Sorry."

Alistair shook his head silently.

"I didn't," she said, and felt the words twist up on themselves again. "Alistair, I don't know what to do."

"You don't need to do anything," he said, his voice wavering.

The locked thickness broke in her throat and she sobbed, almost soundless, her forehead against Alistair's arm. Hard raking breaths that rocked through her, painful. When she pressed herself closer to him, shoving her way under his arm so that she could cling to him, he let her. He didn't move, only stayed until she'd wrung herself silently exhausted. When he shifted as if to edge away from her, she shook her head, her eyelashes clogged and wet.

"Stay? I mean, please? I mean, if you don't have anything else to do."

Alistair laughed, soft and low. "Not right now I don't."

* * *

The rooms were the same as they'd been before she'd left, spotless and gleaming. She found the bath already full and hot, a full carafe waiting on the tray. The reek of the Deep Roads still clung to her, even now, even after they'd gone to the deshyrs, even after she'd thrown the fucking crown at Bhelen.

The crown she'd seen shaped and forged by Caridin.

She dropped her gloves onto the table. Caridin and the anvil and Branka and that _thing_ they'd seen in the Deep Roads. She'd panicked, and she'd known it, her feet taking her back into the curve of the stone while her eyes had been locked on the thing Hespith'd called the Broodmother.

Alistair had hurled himself in front of her, his sword sweeping up to slice into one of the thing's grasping tentacles, and she'd shaken herself. Shaken herself and dragged her sword up and followed him, because there wasn't any way but forward.

The door opened, and Corryth whirled in time to see her sister. Glossy blue fabric clung to Rica's shoulders and hips, sweeping the floor, and the look she turned on Corryth was concerned.

"They told me you had returned," Rica said.

"Yes."

"Bhelen told me what happened at the Assembly."

"Good," she said flatly. "I need to ask you something."

Rica paused. "Of course."

"Bhelen tell you he sent us after Jarvia?"

"Yes."

She nodded. As viciously, she asked, "You know Leske was still there? Attached himself to her? Following her?"

Rica blinked. "No. Of course I didn't. Corryth, how would I –"

"Just means you didn't give him a second thought," she snapped, the words spilling out, thoughtless. She needed to stop, she knew, needed to leash her own temper before she did something stupid.

"And you did?" Rica demanded. "Before or after you left?"

"That's unfair."

"It is," her sister said, her eyes still sharp. "What else did you see down there?"

"Like you want to hear it. From here, with everything you have."

"Corryth."

"Shit." She raked her hands through her hair. Four coiled steps took her to the fireplace, her gaze finding the twining flames. "It's – it's not even that. Leske's dead."

Rica stopped. She lifted a hand, apparently changed her mind, and said, "I'm sorry. Can I ask how?"

"Does it matter?"

"No. No, I suppose it doesn't. Corryth, I'm sorry. I know you – "

"It's done," she snarled, because she didn't – couldn't – hear it, not framed that way. "It's over. Alright? Leave it."

Rica nodded, her expression closing off. "Alright."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean – it's been a hard few days. I'm sorry."

"What will you do next?"

"Leave."

Rica's eyes stayed flat, veiled somehow. "Do I want to ask?"

"If you want to," she snapped back, because suddenly she wanted to see her _sister_ in that blank mask of Rica's face. Wanted to see her and shake her and ask if _she'd_ seen first where this was going – the palace and the jewels and Bhelen and the child, with its grandfather's name – and whether they should've stopped it.

If they _could_ have stopped it, Corryth thought.

"Look," she said. "We're just heading back up and we've got things to do. Darkspawn still up there."

Rica smiled, the movement small. "Just got things to do. That sounds like you, you know?"

"I know."

"Corryth?"

She hesitated. "Yes?"

"Take care of yourself."

"Not promising anything."

Rica's smile widened a fraction. "Fair enough."

"What about you?"

"We'll be alright."

Her sister's voice was pitched light, careful and fragile. She remembered the paper Rica'd written shapes on, shapes that became letters, shapes that had dissolved and fallen apart when water or ale slipped across the parchment. Her name first, and then Rica's, and she'd traced the patterns the letters made, Rica's all curls and circles and hers mostly jagged, rough lines.

"You're sure?" she asked. "You're not just saying that?"

Rica nodded. "No, I'm sure."

"Hey, look. I'm sorry."

"Corryth – "

"Just, you know. That it's worked out like this."

"When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow."

Rica toyed with the gold-napped edges of her cuffs. "Maybe you could spend some time with me. You could see Endrin before you go."

"Maybe."

She watched as Rica crossed the floor again, each movement precise. Aching, she wondered what she should've done, what she should've said, whether she should've given into the raw truth of it, of what she'd done. No, she thought, because they'd always done that, hadn't they, pretended as if they didn't know the brittle honest edges of it, whatever it was. Pretended that they were stuck together because they were.

Under the covers she curled in on herself, the blankets heavy over her shoulders. Sleep came in jolting bursts, and more than a few times she woke, her thoughts racing and her hands slick with sweat. Eventually she dragged herself upright and across to where she'd left her leathers and her weapons.

She shouldn't, she knew, she should get herself back into bed and will herself to sleep. She unbuckled her dagger and sat with her back against the side of the bed. She wanted to check the edge of it, to see that it was as sharp as she knew it was. To see how it caught the light. For long moments she stared at the blade, how it was clean now, because she'd cleaned it, of course she had, because she'd learned to do that.

* * *

Up here, she remembered.

She remembered the first time, when the gates of the city had opened and the brittle air had seared into her eyes and her mouth and she'd tried to breathe it and her chest had locked up. She remembered that for years she'd barely known where the doors were, until that time she'd bet Leske they could find them, and bet him double if they could do it quicker than the time they'd decided it would be a good idea to sneak into a noble's house and see what they could find.

She'd lost, and still remembered how they'd stood, both of them, looking at the lines of the statues – the Paragons, she'd supposed – and seeing the silence and then the gates.

_"Time to go?"_

_ "Time to go. You want a drink?"_

_ "Always."_

_ "You're buying, Brosca."_

_ "That's generous of you."_

This time, she only stopped long enough to blink and then glare at the sun overhead – pale, this early, and shrouded with clouds – before she made her way down the steps, her boots sinking into the snow.

Hours later she called a halt, a fair way back from the path. Too aware of the noise of the others – Leliana saying something to Wynne about the weather, and Zevran teasing Morrigan – she took herself through the high stands of the trees. The branches were heavy, shedding snow when she brushed against them. She found a boulder, scrubbed most of the snow off and perched on it, staring at nothing.

She wasn't sure how long she'd sat there when she heard movement behind her, someone pushing through the trees.

"What?"

"Did you know," Alistair said. "When you leave footprints in the snow, you're really easy to track?"

"Now I know," she replied, forcing her voice light.

"Are you," he said, and stopped. "I was going to ask if you're alright. Instead, I'll ask if you want some company."

She swallowed. "I saw Rica today."

"She was alright?"

"She was fine. I didn't tell her. I mean I said he was dead, but." She shook her head. She couldn't say – didn't want to say – how she'd felt strung together with glass and just as apt to shatter. "Shit. I didn't tell her I killed Leske."

Alistair hitched himself up on the boulder beside her. "Why not?"

"Didn't know how."

"I understand. I mean, as much as I can."

"Don't do that," she snarled before she could help it. "And yes, I'd like some company. I mean, otherwise, I just think too much. Old things."

_She woke with her head a thumping wreck. Briefly she wondered just what she'd managed to do – or drink – before she vaguely recalled that no, it hadn't been ale this time, or maybe some of it had, but most of it had been the fight that had apparently left one side of her face all bruised. Awkwardly she sat up, wincing again when her head spun. _

"_Damn, Brosca. You're alive."_

"_Barely." She kicked the blanket away and realised she was in that room above the tavern, clad in shirt and breeches and barefoot_

"_You took my boots off?"_

_Leske sat on the end of the bed. "I'm nice that way."_

"_We won. I think we won?"_

"_Of course we won," he said with a grin. "They insulted my honour, you leaped to my defence, and here we are, victorious."_

"_Oh, yes," she said, sardonic. "That's entirely how it went. You want to show me where you stashed my boots, you bastard?"_

"_I'm hurt," he replied genially. "They're at the other end of the bed."_

_She grumbled at him – the way she always did, and he smiled and retorted, the way he always did – and pulled them back on. "You going to let me stay here all day?"_

"_You wish." He held out his hand. "Come on."_

_She caught his hand and let him haul her up to her feet. "Hey, Leske?"_

_He must've heard the way her voice roughened, because he paused. "What?"_

"_Thanks." _

"_That's it?"_

_She grinned. "Thanks and let's go figure out what needs doing before we get Beraht knocking our heads together for being late."_

_He snorted. "Nearly every other time that's happened it's been your fault."_

_She buckled her belt back on, settling her sword and then her dagger in place. "Sure it has."_

She shook herself out of her thoughts, the inside of her mouth sandy. Alistair must've seen it, the way she was hunching around herself, the way her eyes must've been too glassy. "I guess it was home," she said, and she supposed she was saying it to Alistair, or even to the icy air that wrapped around her, anything. "Of a sort. Would it be too strange if I missed it?"

"No."

"We knew it, the whole city," she said, and ached. "We knew how – how it fit together. How we thought it might always fit together."

Alistair shifted beside her. "I know."

She wanted to scream that she still thought of it, of how she'd opened Leske's throat. Of how he'd breathed or tried to, and couldn't. She gulped down a breath and swallowed hard. When Alistair gently touched her shoulder, she wanted to shove him away. Instead, she licked at dry lips and raised her head.

"So," she said. "What are we doing for the rest of today?"

"Dinner and cards, apparently. And I believe tomorrow involves slogging through more snow."

"Well." She slid down off the boulder, her throat thick. She made herself look up at him. "Sounds like a plan. Want to dare to challenge me at cards?"

"Why not? I'll face defeat gracefully. Besides, you cheat."

"Me? Never."

"Maybe one day you'll let me win."

She paused and found herself smiling. "Maybe I will."

_End_


End file.
